


the wicked witch of the east, bro

by garoude



Series: -- kinktober 2k19 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Alternate Universe - Human, Deepthroating, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 03:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garoude/pseuds/garoude
Summary: Halloween ragers don't mean much when all you wanna do is screw the asshole that keeps challenging your fan-theories.Day one for Kinktober 2k19.  Today's prompts areDeep-Throating,Face-SittingandMasks.Derek and Stiles share a frat, a bedroom and some arguments.





	the wicked witch of the east, bro

**Author's Note:**

> i'm using the [official kinktober list](https://kinktober2019.tumblr.com/post/187716977021/kinktober-2019-prompt-list). i might mix and match here and there, but ideally i'll get through as many of these prompts as i can over the coming month. wish me luck.

The first time they broke up, Stiles felt like the entire fucking world was ending.

"I miss his hair," he'd sobbed, trying to take sips from his solo cup between hiccups and sniffles. "And his hands. His arms. His face. His beard. He's got these-- these eyes, they're... the prettiest green. The prettiest green? Like... seaweed. He was my seaweed and I just let him go."

He'd commiserated with Scott at a healthy, intelligent distance back when Allison dumped him. Said all the right platitudes, been as supportive as he could be - but Stiles learned, four beers into his first real break up, that it doesn't matter how many songs have been written about heartbreak. It _sucks._

It hadn't lasted. It couldn't have lasted. Make no mistake about it - Derek and Stiles are disgustingly, stupidly in love. They met when their RA screwed up and assigned them to a dorm with only one bed - they've brushed their hands together reaching for the same cup of coffee at the quaint little cafe off campus, and they only hooked up in the first place after pretending to be a couple in order to stop Derek's sister from trying to pair him off with other people. They're every cliché in the book. They're soulmates.

But that first break up, man, it went down rough. Derek was scared of ruining things with Stiles once their relationship got too real, so he pulled the plug and bailed, keeping Stiles at arms length until he figured himself out. Once the two of them missed each other too much to be apart, they rebuilt their bridges, stronger and better and safer than before. They spent all their time together, made out until they could barely breathe, and after a shaky final exam and a lacrosse game that Stiles won for everyone, that was their first year of college done.

They were sophomores the second time they broke up, and honestly, this one went down better. Stiles felt vindicated. Derek deserved it. Derek totally deserved it? Sure, okay, maybe getting hammered at Pride and playing Headbands when you're down at least a bottle and a half of Hennessy wasn't the brightest idea, and yes, okay, he's the one who kept the fight going even after Derek started telling people he was gonna stab him, but she wore a crown and she came down in a fucking bubble, Derek. Of _course_ Glinda's a fucking princess. They had a screaming match over the Wizard of Oz while Scott brushed glitter out of Kira's hair and Liam nursed a killer hangover, and when Jackson stoked the fire by reminding Stiles of some dumb shit Derek said about the cowardly lion three or four arguments back, well. The break up was inevitable.

It only lasted three hours. They fucked pretty hard that night.

The third break up - it's somewhere in the middle.

It all started out innocently enough. Han Solo famously bragged about the Millennium Falcon's speed when he claimed to make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs, and sure, Stiles understands that parsecs are a measurement of distance and not time, but that doesn't mean Han was _lying_ or that there was a mistake in the _script._ If a parsec takes x amount of time to traverse for any standard ship, all Han _means_ is that he made the run in less than the average amount of time your typical pilot would spend crossing the same amount of distance. Not hard to understand.

But Derek corrected him. Derek corrected him? He sat there in his stupid fucking thumbhole sweater, nursing his stupid mug of stupid cocoa, and he reached down into his big boy pants and found enough balls to actually correct him about something Star Wars related. Derek told Stiles that Han wasn't bragging about time. Told him that Han was talking about how the Falcon can navigate hyperspeed in ways it shouldn't be able to. Talked about how Han was bragging about his navigational skills and his ability to keep his ship together and all this other garbage, and frankly, it made Stiles as defensively angry as it made him blindly, overwhelmingly horny. Stiles stared, speechless, as Derek curled his legs under himself and waited for a rebuttal. Stiles had never been so hard in his entire god damn life.

They didn't get a chance to screw around, though. They got onto midi-chlorians, instead. Then they got onto the prequels, even though they'd talked that particular argument to death already. There was an intermission where they agreed that it doesn't _matter_ who shot first, and then they talked about Yoda's morality and Jar Jar's Sith status and then that horrible fucking racing game for the Nintendo 64, and it's hard to say which particular straw broke the camel's back, but somewhere between Derek refusing to accept that Indiana Jones is _just_ as hot as Lara Croft and that stupid fucking fight about whether or not the eagles would have been corrupted by the one ring's allure if Gandalf had allowed Frodo to ride them up to Mordor, Derek literally kicked him out of the top bunk. Stiles yelled, Derek yelled, Stiles called him an idiot, Derek called him a moron, and then Stiles spent the night on Lydia's couch complaining about Johnny Depp. The details are really all just such a whirlwind.

It's been six days. Six days, and they're still not back together.

Halloween's coming up, and as is tradition, Stiles' frat gets to host the first rager of the season. Lydia and the other sorority girls are gonna be peppering parties throughout campus until the end of December, and that's gonna include a couple of Halloween parties once they're closer to the date, but October 19th - today - this one's for Kappa Lambda Gamma to handle.

KLG's frat house has felt pretty tense all week. Scott promised to decorate for the party tonight, but three fake spiderwebs in, Kira called him up and asked him over and Scott begged Boyd and Isaac to get the place ready instead instead. They obliged, but with Stiles and Derek giving each other the silent treatment - well, Stiles has been giving Derek the silent treatment, at least, but Derek's too quiet and unreadable to really say one way or another if the practice is mutual - it made an already uncomfortable atmosphere feel even worse. Isaac complained _relentlessly_ about how they weren't going to get everything done on time, Stiles kept pacing and twitching and making all his annoying ADHD noises to deal with the anxiety of not being able to go talk to Derek, and Derek, being the scumbag that he is, made everything worse by quietly studying in the spare room upstairs and staying out of everyone's way. What an asshole.

Thankfully, everything worked out okay. Pumpkins were carved and felt bats were hung from rafters, multiple beer pong tables were elaborately and meticulously placed in strategic areas through the frat house, and bowls of condoms were placed next to bowls of candy in the vague and desperate hope that anyone in KLG actually had a chance of getting laid while _Spooky Scary Skeletons_ played on loop all throughout the first floor. It's been a bumpy liftoff, but the party's about to start.

Dusk brings with it a frightful Saturday night that might not have all the howling wolves and rolling fog that a good Halloween party should be backdropped against, but there's four kegs and body paint that doesn't melt off when you're sweating, so, hey, more wins than losses. The party doesn't officially start until eleven, but there are freshmen filtering in as early as nine, all eager to see how the big jocks on campus live. Stiles is camping out by the snack table when the party gets into full swing at about midnight, dipping popcorn into nacho cheese to experiment with how it tastes, trying not to think about Derek, who still hasn't come downstairs to join everyone.

"Should've made the pledges handle decorations.."

That's Boyd's voice. Boyd doesn't creep up behind Stiles so much as he just _appears,_ doing that silent-type introvert thing where he just slinks into a conversation without warning. Stiles startles, grabbing at his popcorn, spilling half a cup into the melted puddle of cheese with a strangled, goose-like yelp, and Boyd just reaches around him for a tortilla chip.

Stiles wipes off his hand on his shirt, making a lightly disgusted noise when he sees the mess he's made, but ultimately finds it easy to stop caring. He keeps eating, picking out popcorn from the cheese and covering his mouth while he talks and chews at the same time, wasting away the start of his night with Boyd. His eyes keep flickering to the stairs leading up to the dorms, so he's not as focused on this conversation as he could be, but he makes some small talk. Asks Boyd how he feels about the pledges this year, asks if he remembers what it's like being a freshman. Stupid, pointless conversation between two people who don't have much in common other than a mutual friendship with Derek and a shared roof over their head.

Speaking of Derek -

He's coming down the stairs to join the party, and the second Stiles lays eyes on him, he gets annoyed. They were supposed to wear matching costumes. Stiles was gonna be dressed as a giant pizza, Derek was gonna be his delivery boy. They had it all planned out, right down to what shade of red felt they were gonna buy for the pepperoni toppings, and now they're having this big, stupid fight, so neither of them have followed through.

Stiles reused his costume from last year - he's just your run of the mill vampire, in a white button-up, a gold-trimmed masquerade mask covering his eyes and a coat and some pants he borrowed from the theatre department last Halloween that he had apparently forgotten to return. The thing is, he couldn't find his fake teeth and he couldn't be bothered covering his face with makeup to look all pale and undead, so he looks more like a swashbuckler who lost his sword, than anything else. It looks as last minute as it feels.

Derek, though? Derek's trying to get in his head.

He's dressed as Batman. That, alone, feels passive aggressive - Batman is _Stiles'_ thing, and the mild irritation he feels crawling under his skin is enough motivation to switch from cheesy popcorn to chocolate - but worse, he's pulling it off. Boyd seems to notice the dip in Stiles' mood, but he doesn't do anything to help. Just claps him on the shoulder, tells Stiles to keep it down if he and Derek make up tonight, and wanders off to join the rest of the party.

It's a good costume. Fuck, it's a really, really good costume. Derek's in tight-fitting spandex that pops his ass like crazy, and Stiles can't be the only one missing his mouth while he tries to eat his Hersheys, too busy staring at Derek's body to remember how his hands work. Derek's always had an amazing ass. Firm and round and bouncy after years of basketball and track and lacrosse. Soft to the touch. Tight. So fucking tight. So fucking tight, which is probably due to all those kegels he's gotta find himself doing every time he's in a bad enough mood to tense his whole body up and get all snippy with everyone. Stiles misses that ass. That's _his_ ass.

Derek spies Stiles at the snack table, and there's a second or two where they stare at each other from across the full room of people without knowing what to do. Derek's drawn some eyes, the thick muscles of his thighs and his biceps tight beneath the matte, black fabric that sticks to his skin, and there's this flutter of jealousy in Stiles' chest that he doesn't know what to do with.

They haven't really broken up. He knows that, logically speaking. They're just being proud and stubborn, neither of them wanting to apologize first. For the first time, though, Stiles realizes that there's a possibility this won't just... work out. Maybe talking about Lando Calrissian so much really was annoying enough to warrant being dumped. Maybe Derek doesn't want to fix this.

That's... not a good thought.

"Hey."

Or maybe he's being stupid.

Derek's here, and it looks like he had the foresight to know that Stiles was gonna need a drink to get the two of them talking. He hands Stiles a 4 Loko, which is definitely another act of aggression, but when Stiles lifts the can to his lips to take a drink, Derek laughs in that quiet, soundless way of his and takes it back before he gets a chance. He's got a solo cup of beer in his other hand and gives that to Stiles instead, lightly shaking his head.

"Jesus, I was kidding," Derek says. "I know you hate these."

Stiles taps his thumb anxiously against the cup, taking a sip of his beer, shrugging with one shoulder before he swallows. 

"Been a while since you've bought me a drink," he says. "Maybe my tastes have changed. Maybe I'm a whole new man? Maybe pounding 24 ounces of something designed to make me throw up is exactly the kind of good time I'm into these days. You don't know."

"Guess that's true."

There's - a bit of an awkward silence, now. Derek tilts his head towards the snack table, eyeing the popcorn-and-nacho-and-chocolate bowl of melted cheese with remarkable amounts of restraint, and Stiles tries not to moon over how perfectly the sharp line of his nose fills out his cowl. This asshole genuinely looks like Batman. Like, _Dark Knight_ Batman. Stiles couldn't pull that off at all.

"You look good," Derek says.

"Uh."

Nope. Stiles looks down at his costume. His shirt's wrinkled and untucked from his belt and his mask is sweating enough to irritate his eyes. He disagrees.

"Would've looked better with a pizza crust wingspan," Derek adds.

"Oh - yeah." Stiles laughs, trading his drink to his other hand. "Christ. Don't get me wrong? You would've looked great in a little red polo shirt, but. Jeez, man."

Stiles just - gestures. Derek fills this out like a fucking movie star. Muscles on muscles on muscles. Stiles balls his free hand into a fist and playfully pretends to punch Derek in the chest, who raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Stiles roll his eyes.

"Why Batman?" Stiles asks.

Derek's demeanour changes with the question. He frowns, though with the mask he's got on, it's probably hard to tell. He gestures back at Stiles, though somewhat less energetically than Stiles gestured at him. It's more of a stern point, if anything.

"You like Batman," Derek says.

"Yeah, but," Stiles starts, not really sure what his point is. "You don't. Right? You're a dork, but you're not a comics dork."

"I'm - excuse me? You're the dork." 

Derek folds his arms over his chest, and Stiles could swear he's pushing his biceps forward with his hands just to make them look even bigger. His mouth is suddenly a little dry, so. He finishes his beer, balling the cup as best as he can and tossing it over a girl dressed as a Heather and into the otherwise wildly ignored recycling bin. He makes the shot. 3 points, woosh. Derek keeps talking.

"Maybe I like comics now," Derek says. "Maybe I'm a whole new man, too. You don't know."

"Pshhhh. Whatever, big guy."

They slip back into their old routine so easily, now that they have a crowded hall of freshmen and sophomores to mutually complain about. They break the ice so quickly it's like there was never any ice there at all. Derek and Stiles drift away from the food and the drinks and further still from the thrumming baseline of the stereo system and all the making out that Scott's apparently stumbled into. They work through the party together, sticking closer to each other's sides, shoulder to shoulder, until they make it back upstairs.

They don't actually say they're sorry before they start making up.

Stiles is on his knees in front of Derek, pushing against his thighs and forcefully anchoring him against the wall. They're in one of the bedrooms upstairs - probably the one they share, though honestly, they both stumbled in here so quickly that it's anybody's guess who's bed they're next to. They didn't close the door all the way, and there are no lights on in here, so the room is pretty dark other than the bright line bleeding in from the main hall.

Derek's still in his Batman suit, but Stiles is too impatient to get it off properly. He can't find the zipper, can't figure out where the waistband is, and Derek's cock is already so god damn hard. He's not wearing any underwear, Stiles can tell - he's hard enough that he's pulling the suit away from his skin, tenting the fabric and leaving a dark, wet spot of precum right at the tip of his head, and Stiles makes a wanton, needy moan, too horny and buzzed to remember to keep quiet.

Stiles sinks his fingers into the fabric and _tugs,_ pulling Derek away from the wall a little, and Derek barely manages to keep his balance. He's smiling, one of those sharp, wolfish smiles that only Stiles ever gets to see, and when his boyfriend starts clawing at the spandex with his fingernails to try and tear a hole in it, Derek figures he needs to take pity on the poor guy.

"Here -"

Derek drags his hand down his abs, leaning his shoulderblades against the wall while rolling his hips away from it. He grinds the clothed head of his cock against Stiles' bottom lip, and Stiles exhales, awe-struck and desperate. He drags his tongue over the tip, trying to taste as much pre as he can get, and while Derek's eyelids flutter shut, he works his thumbs beneath the waistband of his pants and pulls them down to his thighs.

He tucks his pants beneath his balls, and Stiles, so god damn happy to finally have Derek on his lips again, surges forward before Derek's even got his hands away. Even in the dark, Stiles knows Derek's cock as well as he knows his own. Hung and uncut and too thick to fit in one hand, it took a lot of work for Stiles to figure out how to really take this as hard as he wanted to. It's been close to a year since Stiles first started blowing Derek, and he still finds himself having trouble taking him in as deep as he can.

But Stiles hasn't been laid in a week. Hasn't even felt like jerking off. He's pent up. If he's ever gonna do this, he's gonna do it tonight.

Stiles starts slow. He swirls his tongue around the tip of Derek's cock, lapping up each clear drop of precum Derek gives him before they get a chance to river back down his shaft. Derek exhales slow and easy, his ribs aching as his eyes adjust to the darkness, while Stiles stays unilaterally focused on what he's doing. 

He's dragging his tongue down the length of Derek's cock, all the way down to his balls, eagerly sucking on one and then the other when he gets there. His fist is soft and warm around Derek's cock, stroking him without rhythm, all slick and frantic around his crown. He corkscrews his hand around Derek's dick, lubed heavily by spit, working each sensitive nerve until Derek's breathing fast and starting to sweat, his toes curling and his legs going straight.

"Stiles," Derek says, breathless and lightheaded already. They can never be away from each other for a week again.

Stiles leans back on his knees, slipping his hands down between his legs, swearing a little when his hands are trembling too much to get his belt open. He gets it eventually, threading the metal pin through its leather hole, unzipping his pants and dragging them down to his thighs with his boxerbriefs. The cold air on his dick is a relief beyond reliefs, and just curling each long, slender finger of his around himself is enough to make Stiles moan again, breathless and guttural.

He wraps his spare hand around the base of Derek's cock and covers his head with soft, pink lips. Derek's looking down at him, apparently seaweed-coloured eyes meeting the glow of Stiles' amber. Stiles _sucks,_ hollowing his cheeks and pressing his tongue onto Derek's glans when he does, and Derek's breath hitches in his throat, his eyes almost rolling back into his head from just how good Stiles is making him feel.

"F... fuck. Wait. Fuck, Stiles, you're gonna make me come if you keep doing that."

Derek's not close yet, but he could be. Wouldn't be hard to get there. Stiles grins, the praise and the acknowledgment of what a good job he's doing shooting straight to his groin. He flexes in his own hand, the slick sound of precum-covered fingers gliding over skin getting louder in the otherwise quiet room, the only sounds outside of the two of them coming from a muted and long-ignored party.

Stiles jacks his cock a little faster as he sinks forward onto Derek's, taking the first warm, smooth few inches into his tight, wet mouth. He hums, pressing his tongue into Derek again, and the noise Derek makes is unrestrained and almost primal - he bucks back against the wall, slapping his arm out for something to grab onto and closing the door beside them with a slam, but it doesn't draw anyone's attention and Stiles doesn't stop.

Stiles hums again, another vibration rolling through Derek's cock, and Derek inhales through his teeth, pressing his palm to Stiles' forehead and immediately pushing him off of him. Stiles makes a startled, unhappy noise, a bridge of spit connecting his lips to Derek. He wipes his mouth clean and looks up at Derek, annoyed about the interruption but also - like - worried that he hurt him, or something.

"Dude," Stiles says.

"You're gonna make me come," Derek says again, eyes wide. "S'only been a minute. I don't wanna come yet."

Stiles stares up at Derek. His eyes are adjusted enough to the dark by now to see how truly fucking wrecked he is already - he's still wearing his Batman cowl, so Stiles can really only see his eyes, but the parts of his cheeks still uncovered are bright red, and he thinks there's some sweat running down beneath his jawline which can't just be coming from how hot the costume is. Stiles feels, uh...

Proud, honestly. He brought Derek to the edge without even trying. He really must have missed him as much as Stiles missed him back.

"I don't care," Stiles says, inching forward on his knees. He wraps both hands around Derek's waist, now, leaving himself alone. "Come whenever you want. I've missed you."

Derek looks - apprehensive, staring back down at Stiles with slightly parted lips, but that's all the conversation Stiles is willing to have until he's swallowed every last drop of his boyfriend's load. He grins again, and then -

And then he works. He works fucking hard. Stiles opens his throat and shuts his eyes, relaxing and staying as determined as he can. Life truly is unfair - Derek's dick really is a monster, and Stiles knows how badly his jaw is gonna ache if he manages to actually get this done - but he wants to do this. To _really_ do this. He's wanted to do this for months.

He breathes through his nose as he takes more and more of Derek's cock into his mouth, minding his teeth and squeezing Derek's waist tight. Derek's got his hands splayed flat against the wall again, palms sweaty and bones rigid, and he's working himself down from the urge to come, even though watching Stiles struggle to take him deeper and deeper than he ever has might be the hottest experience of Derek's life. Stiles is slow and steady, his mouth a wet, perfect vacuum that gets a solid five or six inches of Derek inside of it, and when Derek feels the back of Stiles' throat brush up against his tip, Stiles gags, coughing and less prepared than he thought he was.

When Derek tries to pull back again, Stiles just holds him steady, silently asking him to stay. Six inches down. Just a few more to go.

It takes a second for Stiles to adjust to the feeling of something filling him up and cutting off his airways like this, but he's gotten this far with Derek before - he's not going to be satisfied until Derek's bottoming out in him, burying Stiles' nose in his skin and blowing his load directly into his stomach. Stiles' eyes are watering, but he pushes himself onwards, getting more and more and more and _more_ of Derek into him - he swallows around Derek's length and the spasm of his throat makes Derek whisper a hushed and mystified _holy fuck,_ flexing more pre into Stiles, and even though his airway is starting to get a little tight, Stiles can see the finish line.

"I'm..."

Derek's hips are starting to move. Not much, not at all, but Stiles' mouth just feels too good for Derek to stay still, patiently being served. He's very, very careful, fucking Stiles' throat in gradual little bursts, each miniscule drag of friction bringing him closer and closer to coming. Stiles is nearly done. He can't come yet.

"Stiles, I'm getting close."

Stiles scrounges up the last of his willpower, working through the ache in his jaw that he knew he'd have to deal with and blinking away the sting of tears clinging to his lashes. He squeezes his arms as tight around Derek's hips as he can, urging him forward, and Derek thrusts forward in one gradual, drawn out push.

They do it. Stiles deepthroats Derek all the way, his nose buried in the scratchy hair above Derek's cock, his throat almost trembling from being stretched and worked this hard. Stiles swallows and Derek's entire body tenses, the sheer flash of pleasure he gets feeling himself buried this deep into someone he loves being just enough to get him over the edge - 

And he comes. He grips his fingers in Stiles' hair again and the moan that rips out of his throat _explodes_ from him, loud enough to almost be a scream. Stiles' body instinctively tries to push back when that first jet of cum paints the inside of his throat white, but he wants this _bad,_ and Derek's pulling his hair so tightly that it's like he's so lost in the bliss of his climax that he's forgotten about Stiles all together.

Derek shoots and he shoots and he shoots, filling Stiles with salty sweet bursts of his load that are bred into him too deeply for him to get a taste. Stiles ends up gagging too much and needing to pull back before Derek's done, and Derek blearily lets go, finishing off on Stiles' face, rapidly jerking himself through the last of his orgasm that weakly streaks Stiles' cheek and lip with white. Stiles is red-lipped and well-fucked, grinning as a messy mix of cum and spit cling to the corners of his mouth. Derek collapses bonelessly against the wall when he's done, and Stiles catches his breath, laughing without even realizing he's laughing. He did it. He fucking did it. He's been wanting to do that for a long, long time.

Stiles takes off his mask, cleaning himself up with the corner of Batman's cape, and when Derek happily slurs out something about how this costume's just a rental, Stiles makes a mental note to pay for the dry cleaning when they're done.

But they're not done yet.

"Get on the bed," Stiles says. He staggers to his feet, rubbing at the raw, bruised feeling of his throat with an ecstatic satisfaction he's never really felt before. Christ, this is better than winning that Lacrosse game last year. He's so _proud_ of himself.

Stiles isn't usually the one making orders, but Derek would do anything for him, both now and forever. He wobbles, satisfied and going steadily soft, over to whoever's bed this is - he flattens the unmade sheets and dusts it down before collapsing onto his back, still in full Bruce Wayne regalia. He leaves his arms and his legs starfished out at his side, and soon, Stiles joins him.

Stiles kicks off the rest of his clothes, stripping himself bare in clumsy, tired movements, horny and eager but willing to pass the hell out the second he comes. He doesn't do this often - he's always wearing a t-shirt when he and Derek fuck, he's always covering himself with a towel when he's just gotten out of the shower, but right now, Stiles is naked, every hard angle and narrow line of his body on display for his boyfriend. Every freckle, every mole.

Derek thinks he looks beautiful.

It's not gonna take much for Stiles to blow. He's achingly hard, probably only as dizzy as he is because all the blood rushed so quickly down south when Derek came down his throat. He arranges himself so his knees are on either side of Derek's ears, sitting over his face - he has one hand on the bed's headboard, gripping the top of it for balance as tightly as he can, and the other strokes his cock in long, slow motions. Derek looks up from beneath him, still chiselled and handsome and relaxed, tilting his head up and waiting for his next command.

Stiles doesn't get a chance to lower himself down before Derek's reaching up and helping him. He hooks his fingers around Stiles' thighs and pulls him down until he's _right_ on his face, and when Stiles feels the familiar swipe of Derek's tongue against his hole, his knees go weak. He needs to rest both hands on the headboard for balance, but that works out fine - Derek gets enough of his energy back to start jerking Stiles off while he eats his ass.

"Ah - Christ, Derek."

Derek's always been good at this. He's jerking Stiles off in long, languid pulls, only ever stroking in upward, teasing strokes, rhythmically milking him and working him up to the edge at his own pace. Stiles swears a few times, clenching his teeth together until they hurt, his body getting so tense that his thighs squeeze around Derek's head, eagerly urging him on.

Derek fucks Stiles with his tongue in alternating, carefully measured pulses. He swirls his tongue around the rim of his hole, lightly flicking the tip against pink muscle before filling his mouth with saliva and actually penetrating him. He goes in deep every time, always craning his neck upwards, his beard scratching against Stiles' ass, thrusting in and out. He's tender but he's precise, always knowing when to speed up and when to back down, always timing the long, lazy strokes of Stiles' cock to crescendo perfectly with each shock of pleasure he fucks into him.

"Faster," Stiles urges.

And Derek disobeys. He keeps this up, eating Stiles out at exactly the pace he wants to, edging him with practiced, calloused hands while Stiles falls to pieces on top of him. Stiles is sweating and panting only a few minutes in, his forehead resting against the wall while his elbows and his forearms lean on the headboard for support, his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. Derek goes slower and slower and slower still, until Stiles is a writhing, needy mess, all but begging for Derek to just - fucking - let him come.

Eventually, though, the torture relents. Derek gives Stiles the best handjob of his life, beating him off as fast as he can with very little warning, and Stiles yells, bucks forward, and shuts his eyes tight. He comes as hard as Derek must have - it wrecks his body and makes him feel temporarily blnd, white clouding his vision as he spasms and frantically tries to breathe in air. Jets of cum splatter against the headboard, against Derek's fingers, against the pillows, the wall, Derek's fucking mask. Stiles comes until he genuinely thinks he might faint from dehydration, and then...

And then he's done. he rolls off of Derek, blearily staring up at the ceiling while the whole world spins and feels as if it's underwater. His blood is pounding in his ear and he feels like he's run a god damn marathon, but he relaxes, and Derek relaxes, and somewhere, distantly, Stiles is absolutely certain that this week of being away from each other might have been worth it.

When he sits up a few minutes later, Derek's taking off his mask, looking down in distaste at the strings of jizz Stiles was kind enough to ruin poor Batman's face with. Stiles mumbles a lazy _whoops_ that isn't the least bit sheepish, staggering out of bed to find his clothes. He did have clothes, right? The bliss of coming that hard is leaving him too floaty to remember.

"You wanna go back to the party?" Derek asks. He's sleepy and soft and incredibly relaxed, dropping down into bed to prop himself up on his elbow, watching Stiles with all the affection in the world.

Stiles shakes his head, crawling back into bed when he's half-dressed to leave a warm, distant kiss on Derek's cheek.

"Let's just skip it and watch a movie."

**Author's Note:**

> [you're gonna look at me and you're gonna tell me that i'm wrong?](https://youtu.be/uznUlgpKBzE)
> 
> beta by [librations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librations), who once outran a black bear.


End file.
